


Three's a Company

by Sodafly



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Hand Jobs, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-18
Updated: 2014-02-18
Packaged: 2018-01-13 00:26:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1206040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sodafly/pseuds/Sodafly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>D’Artagnan has a habit of stumbling in on all the wrong occasions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three's a Company

**Author's Note:**

> This can otherwise be known as 'Athos likes rough sex and d'Artagnan is an unfortunate witness'

D’Artagnan has a habit of stumbling in on all the wrong occasions. He doesn’t mean to, but ever since he befriended the musketeers, it just kept happening. From stumbling in on Aramis on bath day, to accidentally invading Athos’ personal life during their trip back to Paris, d’Artagnan just can’t seem to help it.

 

It started when he had just finished mucking out the stables, fresh straw crunching under his boot soles. It was the last of his chores for the day, and exhausted from training exercises with the other musketeers, he was all too ready to collapse into bed. It had been one of those rare occasions where he had been subtracted from Athos, Porthos and Aramis, as they had been busy accompanying the King. He found himself sorely missing their company.

 

 How he ended up stuck behind the door leading from the tack room to the hay store, he didn’t know, but he did know that if he moved an inch it would be the end of him.

 

“If I left him in the company of you two, we would be finding him lost in the gutter with no coins in his pocket. I do that enough already with Porthos”

 

“Oh shush, is it so bad to admit you have a soft spot for the boy?”

 

“Besides, I’m not so sure he is as impressionable as you think, especially not to our ‘bad influence’ as you so lovingly put it”

 

Gently setting aside the pitchfork upon the hook, well aware that he is the topic of discussion. It disturbed him greatly, ruffled something deep inside of him that instantly wanted to burst through the door to the tack room, and demand what the meaning of all this was. It was a complex that had since died down since befriending the musketeers, the need to strike down anything he considered an insult. But to hear it coming from the three of them hurt more than he could say. Upon reflection, if he had burst through the door at that moment he would have avoided everything that followed.

 

“He shows promise, but he still has much to learn”

 

“And who best to teach him than the best swordsman, and fine leader, of the musketeers”

 

D’Artagnan shifts so that he can peer through the slightly ajar door, the tiny niche allowing him to see into the room. Athos has the unbuckled saddle of his horse gripped in his hands as Aramis carries the reigns, trailing behind by one foot as they place the riding gear in its rightful place. Porthos is perched on a stool, slapping his gloves down onto the low set table. 

 

Athos turns to look at Aramis, one eyebrow raised before sparing a glance at Porthos.

 

“What are the two of you up to?” It’s slowly delivered, a calmly given question that has patience but doesn’t hide the suspicion behind it. Aramis feigns innocence, arching a hand over his left breast, but the smile gives it all away

 

“Us? What makes you think we could possibly be up to something?”

 

“Do not insult me by thinking I don’t know both of you we’ll enough by now that I can’t tell when you are scheming. Now, please enlighten me.”

 

It’s a type of light teasing that d’Artagnan has never seen in Athos before, the fond play at fake anger is not like the jests and jabs the three men throw around in the training yard. This is private play, and Aramis is giving Athos a lowered gaze that is normally reserved for pretty girls in taverns. Porthos finally moves from where he’s been perched silently grinning at the exchange, to stand at Aramis’ shoulder between the two men, laying a hand gently upon Athos’ shoulder.

 

“You know us well enough, you already know”

 

It may have been a trick of the mind, but the action of Porthos leaning in to kiss Athos fully on the mouth, is unmistakable. D’Artagnan has to smother the noise of surprise with a hand over his mouth. Athos sinks for a moment, pushing forward into the movement, before seemingly snapping back to his senses. He steps back and away with an audible smack of the lips, and his face is prime example of carefully schooled emotion.

 

“Do you really think this is the appropriate place to do such a thing?” 

 

“Don’t worry we checked. Everyone else has gone either home or to the nearest tavern” It’s ironic really, because if they had, d’Artagnan wouldn’t be in this situation right now.

 

“Besides, it’s not like you have been joining us in any of the appropriate places recently.” Aramis adds, coming out from behind Porthos.  Athos’ sigh is resigned, scowling at Aramis with a remark sitting on the tip of his tongue.

 

It’s too late, to move now would not only embarrass them all, but it would make way to some awkward and rather poor explanations.

 

It’s strange to witness, but somehow it makes sense, as Aramis rounds to loops his arms around Athos’ waist, chin resting on his shoulder as they press together chest against back. It makes sense, how they have always been together, and although they welcome d’Artagnan with open arms, there has always been something closed off from him. From what d’Artagnan assumed to be a kinship forged over years of comradeship, had emerged something that ran so much deeper, something that allows the fond touch and the press of three men against one another.

 

“Come on Athos, talk to us at least. What disastrous thought is rattling around that handsome head of yours?” Aramis drawls, nuzzling against the crook of Athos’ neck. There’s an edge of desperation to his voice, a look of concern on Porthos’ face and d’Artagnan thinks back to the Bonnaire mission. Thinks of Athos; drunk and raw and unstable, the fire from the building casting an amber glaze on his skin as he desperately insists that what transpired should remain between them. 

 

“There is nothing to speak of.” It sounds like a conversation that has taken place many times before, the natural concern failing to break through the stubborn secrecy of Athos.

 

“As you so frequently insist” Porthos looks like he’s trying hard not to roll his eyes. “But at least let us do something.”

 

“We know what you like after all.” Aramis says with a wink and a smile that is wicked.

 

“Then you know that I’m not too fond of having a tumble in the stables like a country boy” Athos teases in return, finally giving in to the request with a tilt of the head and a smirk.

 

“Oh what a noble man you are. You’d be more suiting to high society, with their grand boudoirs and elaborate furnishing” Aramis jokes in return, smiling into the kiss they exchange. His nimble fingers are already working on the belt buckle, allowing it and all the holsters strap to it, to fall with a clattering thud.

 

“A pity, he would look rather pretty spread out on fine rugs. Do you not think so Aramis?” Porthos adds, pulling Athos close up against him, so that he ends up wedged between the two of them.

 

“Quite so”

 

Athos says nothing but the vivid blush rising to his cheeks says it all.

 

For his part, d’Artagnan knows he should look away, and a part of him does want to curl up into a ball and stay that way until the whole ordeal has passed. But, as if struck by some kind of avid fascination, he finds he cannot move away from the crack in the door. He may be country born, but d’Artagnan had heard his fair share of stories about the ‘odd’ men in the cities, who took to the company of men over women, had heard the priests include it in their doomsday tales. Yet he did not understand the workings behind it. The logistics behind how one man would lie with another baffled him, but how exactly three men could perform such an act with each other was completely beyond him.

 

Athos’ mouth was constantly occupied with either kissing Aramis or Porthos, one greedily continuing where the other left off, as their hands worked on the straps and buckles. Pieces of armour fell to the floor, followed by his coat until he’s stood in shirt, trousers and boots, clutching desperately at Porthos in order to remain upright. His hair is a mess from fingers that run through and pull the strands at odd angles, and Aramis’ jaw is pink with stubble burn.

 

The involuntary gasp Athos lets out when someone slides their hand over the bulge in his trousers has a hot flush running down d’Artagnan’s spine. Young d’Artagnan hadn’t really paid much attention to his feeling towards the other men, asides from the gratitude and warm friendship he felt when walking alongside them. He knew they all had their varying degrees of handsomeness, with Aramis’ conventionally sharp sculpted face and charm, with Porthos’ large build and joyous air, with Athos’ rugged look and broodiness. The three made quite the picture when walking down the street together.

 

“You are wicked” Athos says to no one in particular, head dropping back onto Aramis’ shoulder to stare up at the ceiling with hooded eyes.

 

The mouths have moved from the constant trade of ones lips for another, to Aramis placing open mouthed kisses on the skin of Athos’ neck, as Porthos works a bruise that can easily be covered into his shoulder. The laces of his shirt have been plucked open completely, and with two sets of hands hoisting up the fabric to run over the skin beneath, there’s little point it really being there at all. Even from his vantage point, d’Artagnan can see a long white scar ridged on Athos’ shoulder, smaller darker pinks ones edged onto his flank and arm.

 

“And you are as difficult as always” Porthos counters, cupping Athos in the hope of drawing out a sound, but Athos bites down hard on his lip, as if he cannot bear to make a noise. But his pleasure is obvious; in the way Aramis has to hold up his weakened body, in the flush of his skin, the press of his body and the prominent erection beneath his trousers.

 

“Come now Athos, how would you like us? Or will we be ordering ourselves this time?” It is Aramis who asks, resting his cheek on his shoulder and smiling affectionately. Athos looks at him pointedly; a silent communication to convey what he cannot bring himself to ask.

 

“Very well.” Aramis smiles, placing a soft kiss onto the juncture of his neck. “Porthos, would you kindly take over holding our dear man up? I fear he cannot stand on his own.”

 

Athos half-heartedly punches Aramis in the arm, a reminder not to get too cocky despite their positions, but another open-mouthed smile is all that greets him. The change is swift, arms simply sliding along until Athos is slumped back against Porthos (who in turn, has  been backed up against the wall) with Aramis now standing in front.

 

“Hm, he does look pleasantly debauched, such a pretty thing is he not?”

 

“Indeed, even more so when he’s spread out on his back. Do you think we may have chosen the wrong venue Aramis?”

 

“Certainly not, every time he sets foot in here he’ll remember this.”

 

He didn’t know about Athos, but d’Artagnan would certainly be remembering this every time he goes anywhere near the stables. Will remember it tomorrow and will still have to try to look all three of them in the eye without blushing furiously. But it was a fascinating thing, to see Athos, (who one would imagine to be as commanding in bed as he is elsewhere) now surrender completely to the other two, to let them pull and push him into whatever position they like without a word of protest.

 

 But aside from that, d’Artagnan was a little shocked to find that the how ordeal has affected him subconsciously, finding himself burning under the collar and his trousers growing tight around his groin.

 

“Well Aramis, as much as we enjoy hearing you speak, do you not think you could use your skilled tongue in another fashion?” Porthos says and Athos lets out a stifled groan involuntarily, either exasperated with the word play, or recalling previous memories.

 

“I thought you’d never ask.” Aramis says, leaning over Athos’ shoulder to kiss Porthos, a vicious clash of tongue and teeth, before sinking to his knees. The floorboards creak under his weight and d’Artagnan is suddenly aware of how his joints are starting to cease up. Although he doubts the three men would hear, or pay notice, if he made a sound, but he did not want to risk it.

 

Aramis slides two hands up over the sharp V of Athos’ hips bones, bunching the shirt up around his waist. There’s a trail of dark hair leading to his groin, and Aramis nips at the skin above his belly button, making Athos arch forward.  Aramis continues to worry red marks into Athos’ skin, hands moving from hips to thighs, fingers rubbing close to the clothed erection but never touching it. Porthos has a bruising grip on Athos’ hips, preventing him with bucking forward, sucking equally as vicious marks into the skin where he’s dragging the open shirt collar down over his shoulder. Through it all, Athos remains stubbornly silent, aside from the labouring breaths, he bites down hard on his bottom lip and screws his eyes up tight.

 

D’Artagnan steadies himself with one arm against the doorframe, arousal making his knees weak.  His eyes are glued to the line of Athos’ neck, the jut of his Adams apple and the clenching of the muscle there. Of all the people who he won’t be able to look in the eye tomorrow, it will be Athos, who he knows he’ll never be able to fully understand despite knowing too much already.

 

“You’re looking a little flushed Athos, is everything alright?” Aramis jests, sitting back on his knees. With some effort, Athos regains his senses enough to tilt his head forward and glare down at Aramis with a look that could kill. Porthos laughs at the action.

 

“Why do you tease him in such a way Aramis? The man can barely stand let alone reply with any sense of wit” Porthos answers on his behalf, running a hand back and forth over Athos’ nipple, which has a small almost inaudible sound from the other’s mouth.

 

Aramis shrugs, kissing just above the waist of the trousers before turning his attention to the ties. Undoing the buttons and laces is simple enough, and with practised hands, Aramis has the task down to a fine art. The fabric is pulled apart and pushed down to mid thigh. But before he can move forward, Athos reaches down to run his knuckles gently against Aramis’ cheekbone. Aramis smiles at the fond gesture, taking the hand into his own and pressing a kiss in to the heel of Athos’ hand.

 

When Aramis leans forward on his knees to take Athos’ cock into his mouth, Athos lets out a moan that is filthy on all levels. Porthos grins at the sound, having finally broken through that steel composure. Athos clutches at the arm secured around his waist, the only thing that is keeping up upright, squirming in Porthos’ hold.

 

“It’s alright, I’ve got you.” Porthos shushes, tightening his grip as he buries his fingers in Aramis’ hair to guide his movement. 

 

Aramis steadies himself with hands on Athos’ thighs, running the flat of his tongue over the head and down along the veins of his cock. He places small kisses down the sides, pausing briefly to suck at the base before taking the length into his mouth. Athos has somehow managed to regain some sense of composure, now slack in Porthos’ arms, panting and rolling his head to the side. If it wasn’t for the utterly dazed expression, d’Artagnan was sure he would have been spotted, now directly in Athos’ line of sight. But his eyes are too glazed over to fully comprehend it.

 

D’Artagnan presses a hand against his groin, biting his lip hard as not to make a sound. He had always considered the three musketeers to be something close to god amongst men. The musketeers in general were the most noble of professions, but Athos, Aramis and Porthos reigned supreme amongst them. A pantheon that somehow manages to look divine even now; breathless, boneless, and writhing in each other’s gasp.

 

Porthos turns Athos’ head so they can kiss with a gentle hand against his neck. It’s an awkward exchange, mainly made up of breathing heavily into each other’s mouths as Athos sucks on Porthos’ bottom lip. The grip on Athos’ hips has vanished, but instead of bucking forward into Aramis’ mouth, who has already taken him down to the base, he grinds back against Porthos. Porthos lets out a noise, rolling his hips forward until they’re both rutting against each other. Aramis makes a gagging sound, pulling back sharply with a cough.

 

“Really you two, you’re making it quite difficult down here.”

 

“Then maybe you should get out the way.” Taking the hint, Aramis scrambles to his feet and steps back as Athos is whirled around and slammed into the wall.

 

 He hits the wall with a thud, grunting on impact with one arm held behind his back as his cheek presses into the flat surface. He grits his teeth, moving his head into a more comfortable position before going slack.  Porthos angles his hips so that he’s rutting up against him and using his body as a means to an end. The viciousness has Athos groaning into the wall, feet sliding further apart.

 

“Well if you’re going to have him all to yourself, you might as well do it properly.” Aramis says, winding his hands around Porthos’ waist to pluck open the ties of Porthos’ trousers.

 

“I don’t have the proper means to do so.”

 

“Then I guess we’ll have to make do. Athos bring your legs together.” With some effort, he manages to bring them together, a little help from Aramis who has a hand pressed against his outter thigh. With Aramis now standing side on, the view is effectively blocked but d’Artagnan can imagine, Aramis kissing Porthos as he thrusts into the tight space between Athos’ thighs.

 

Aramis is soon moved by Athos pulling him with the hand on his free arm fisted in his jacket, needing someone to grip onto as Porthos’ thrusts push him further against the wall. He’s writhing between the two surfaces, unable to get friction around his cock as the insides of his thighs grows slick with precome.

 

“Allow me” Aramis says, managing to get a grip on Athos’ cock and moving in a fast, twisting motion. It tears a ragged sound out of Athos, lurching forward as if it was physically ripped out of his chest. He stifles it instantly, refusing to allow himself the pleasure. Aramis smiles in return, knowing his leader all too well, and opts to kiss him instead.

 

D’Artagnan is burning up inside, knows that he can’t hardly wait any longer as he kneads his hand over the rise in his trousers, slapping a hand over his mouth to prevent any noise he might make from seeping through.  Oh God he won’t be able to face them tomorrow, won’t be able to enter the garrison like nothing has happened. It’ll be impossible to walk up to them tomorrow morning without remembering Athos being pressed against the wall and it’ll be torture to try not to imagine it.

 

“How close are you?” Aramis asks as if discussing the weather. Athos makes a disgruntled noise, torn between bucking into Aramis’ hand or pushing back into Porthos’ thrusts. Instead he just grips a hand tight around Aramis’ belt, turning his face away, which has Aramis chuckling softly.

 

It doesn’t take much longer for Athos to come, forehead pressed against the wall, the majority of the noise he wants to make reduced down to a grunt. He coats Aramis’ hand, body ceasing up .He lets out a shaking breath when it’s over, eyes falling shut as he attempts to compose himself, allowing his relaxed limbs to be used in whatever way the others want. Aramis litters his shoulder with affectionate kisses, making small noises of comfort.

 

Porthos follows soon after, thrusting into the space between Athos’ thighs with a renewed vigour before finishing himself off. He comes all over the back of Athos’ thighs, the sound being swallowed as Aramis kisses him through it. The feeling of the warm wetness splattering against his skin must bring Athos back to his senses, because he makes a displeased noise, and although he cannot bring himself to move he still manages to mumble,

 

“Thank you for that you bastard, I still have to walk home.”

 

“Don’t worry, I’ll let you go first in the line for bath day tomorrow. You can get the tub when it’s clean and warm and I’ll wallow in your filth afterwards”

 

“What a charming romantic you are” Athos finally pushes off the wall, hoisting his trousers back up and wincing at the uncomfortable dampness. Aramis is wiping his hands on a discarded rag he found lying on the tabletop.

 

“Aramis, I don’t think you have been properly attended to” Porthos points out, looking pointedly at the other’s groin.  

 

Aramis makes to say something, but soon finds his mouth is too busy with kissing Athos to make the words. Not wanting to be left out, Porthos pulls the two of them against him, and shoves a hand down the front of Aramis’ trousers.

 

It’s a quick, hasty fumble without finesse. It’s now Aramis who willingly makes as much noise as possible, clutching at both Athos’ and Porthos’ shoulders as if uncertain who will provide the best support, before deciding that both will have to do. Athos manages to wrangle open his jacket and pull the collar of his shirt aside so he can nip at dip of his collar bone right above his sternum. Alongside Porthos working him roughly inside the fabric, Athos has his knee jammed between Aramis’ spread legs, giving him something to rut against.

 

When he comes it’s with a cry that has to be silenced with Porthos’ hand clamped over his hand, unless he wants all of Paris to come streaming through the stable doors and catch them in their rather compromising position. The room smells heavily of hay and sex and leather and it almost has d’Artagnan reeling in a giddy daze.

 

“Where you loud enough Aramis? I don’t think the boys in the countryside heard you.” Porthos jabs after standing in content silence for a while. Athos has stepped away from them, back turned as he laces his shirt and trousers.

 

“I don’t know, is that a subtle reference to our own dear farm lad?” Aramis replies with a fondness that has d’Artagnan’s heart skipping a beat. For a moment he thinks he’s been caught, that Aramis has jested on the grounds he knows he’s there. But the way he shares a laugh with Porthos afterwards suggests otherwise.

 

“No I suspect he is too busy with Madame Bonacieux to hear you.”

 

“She is a married woman Porthos” Athos warns, having never taken kindly to remarks against a person’s honour, be it d’Artagnan’s or Constance’s. 

 

“And despite our suggested ‘bad influence’, he is not so stupid” Aramis concludes with a smile, having bought the conversation back round to its beginnings. Porthos shrugs, having righted his clothing and looking as if nothing had happened.

 

Athos is another matter. He had gathered up all his clothes and pieces of armour and placed them on the table, a little sluggish in his attempts to re-dress. It suggested that perhaps Athos is not the type for movement after sex, is the type who just wants to lie back and maybe go to sleep. Aramis goes to his aid, holding open the jacket when Athos fails to find the sleeve and pushing it onto his shoulders.

 

“Thank you” He says, addressing more than just the help with the clothing.

 

“There is no need to thank us, you know that.” Porthos says, quickly buttoning the jacket to Athos’ preference. Together they strap on buckles and pull on armour, as Athos wants to protest but thinks otherwise.

 

They depart soon after, having checked and rechecked that they have not left any incriminating evidence behind. Athos takes the lead as Aramis and Porthos walk either side of him, already moving on to talk of lighter matters like they usually do. D’Artagnan breathes a sigh of relief when the doors bang shut and their voices fade into the distance.

 

If he thinks of what he witnessed when lying in bed that night, cock in hand, then no one is to know about it. 

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://athoses.tumblr.com/)


End file.
